


love you a little, love you a latte

by rory_the_dragon



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Are Brian Freddie and Roger the only three employees ever mentioned, Freddie Makes A Sign, Like, M/M, Maycury Week, Modern AU, Mutual Pining, Pining, Ridiculousness ensues, Small mentions of disordered eating, The Infamous 'Today Your Barista Is...' Sign, There is barely coffee, There is no plot, There is so much pining though, What is pacing?, as Brian is a college student and running on coffee alone, coffee shop AU, day three, so much, very possibly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-10 03:21:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20521103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rory_the_dragon/pseuds/rory_the_dragon
Summary: Brian is running late when he sees the sign that’s going to ruin the rest of his already shitty day.(Written for Day Three of Maycury Week: Coffee Shop AU)





	love you a little, love you a latte

Brian is running late when he sees the sign that’s going to ruin the rest of his already shitty day.

He actually has to take a moment or three, standing in the crisp October air outside the cafe, with his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose and his eyes closed tight, as if when he opens them there suddenly won’t be a wildly inappropriate sign in very distinctive handwriting propped up outside the door. 

He opens his eyes. The sign is still there.

“_Freddie_.” It’s not a growl, but it’s a near thing as he pushes his way through the front door and stalks his way across the room. It’s still thankfully early enough that the main morning crowd hasn’t arrived yet, so the low tables and comfy chairs are still empty and waiting, and there’s no-one at the counter. Which means he has a direct path to where Freddie is standing, dressed to perfection in his apron and smiling his best customer-service smile. To his credit, the smile only falters slightly when he sees the look on Brian’s face. 

“Darling, where have you _ been, _ I had to open all by mysel-”

“The _ sign_, Freddie.” Brian taps a long finger on the counter, trying to resist the urge to pinch his nose again. Freddie always makes fun of him for it, says he’s too serious and maybe he’s right but then there are days like this. Freddie could use a little more serious, he sometimes thinks. “What on earth could have possessed you-”

“You _ told _ me to get creative with the chalkboard!” Freddie retorts quickly, voice all defensive stubbornness that’s clearly just been _ waiting _ for Brian to arrive. “You said I could!”

Admittedly, that is the truth. But when Brian had suggested it, he’d been watching Freddie doodle absently on the back of a napkin during a quiet lull and the words had just tripped out of him. It had been worth it for the way Freddie had lit up at the prospect, even if he’d had to convince John of the merits later on.

“I meant-” Brian doesn’t really _ know _ what he meant, but it certainly wasn’t this. “I didn’t mean-”

“It’s hard work being single, darling, I saw an opportunity and I took it.” Freddie shrugs, which is more maddening than Brian has words for.

“Freddie, it’s seven am on a Tuesday-”

“It’s actually closer to eight, dear, did you sleep through your alarm?”

“-and people don’t want to see _ that _ on their way to work.”

Freddie eyes narrow. “Is it the gay thing?”

Which is so fantastically ridiculous that Brian can only gape.

“_The gay… _ ” He repeats. How did his morning go to shit so fucking quickly? He wishes he could open his eyes and be listening to the awful blare of his alarm going off when it was _ meant _ to because he _ hadn’t _ forgotten to charge the damn thing all night, and he _ wouldn’t _ miss his bus and he would arrive _ on time _ to find Freddie shivering in the cold and waiting for him to be the one to take his fingers out of his gloves and key in the code for the cafe. Freddie would turn on the radio and find some good music as Brian made them two hot chocolates, just to check the machine was working of course.

That had been Brian’s _ plan _ when he realised he and Freddie were both opening this morning. Freddie’s college courses always conveniently seem to stop him from taking more than the absolute minimum required early shifts on the rota, so it’s a rarity that Brian manages to sync up their shifts in the morning. 

He always looks forward to them, but somehow he’s arguing with Freddie instead.

He gives in and pinches his nose, closes his eyes as he says, “No, Fred, it’s not the gay thing. It’s the prostituing yourself out in a place of business thing that I take some _ fucking _ issue with!”

“_Don’t_ _shout at me!”_

“_I’m not shouting!_” Brian shouts.

Freddie’s eyes go very bright, very quickly. “I’m going on break.” He says, clipped and careful, and tears the apron from his neck. “It’s only a bloody sign, Brian,” he says as he passes, which is how Brian knows he’s fucked up. Freddie is all _ dears _ and _ darlings _ and _ loves _. He’s barely said Brian’s name since Brian interviewed him a year ago.

The bell rings behind him, and the cafe falls silent.

“Smooth,” Roger says from his perch by the sink, and Brian blinks to see him there. How long had he been there? Brian has the horrible suspicion that the answer to that is _ the whole time_. “No, I’m serious, I think that went _ really _ well.”

“Fuck off,” Brian says, rote, and lifts the counter. He peels off his messenger bag and stashes both it and his hoodie in the employee cupboard, grabbing his apron off his hook and taking the few moments alone to try and calm himself down. He fumbles with the ties twice, but eventually gets it knotted. “And I suppose _ you _ think the sign is hilarious?” He challenges as he comes back out, heading over to take Freddie’s place at the till.

He collects Freddie’s apron up from where it’s been discarded, folds it twice.

“Yeah,” Roger admits, taking a swig from the large mug in his hands. “But I don’t want to sleep with Freddie.”

Brian grits his teeth. “That’s not-”

“That’s entirely and the only reason why you have a problem with it.” Roger interrupts, laughing, and there is no way that Brian’s going to make it through the day without murdering someone.

“I would be just as annoyed if you had put that sign up.”

“Yeah, but that’s because you don’t like me, not because you’re jealous.”

“I’m not-” Brian cuts himself off. He’s had this argument too many times with Roger, knows how he sounds when he says how not jealous he is over the men who pick Freddie up from the cafe for dates or who drop him off in the morning. Jealous, is how he sounds. “It’s inappropriate,” He lands on, and it sounds like a lie even to his own ears so Roger doesn’t dignify it with a response.

“You should’ve just given him your number,” he says instead.

“He _ has _ my number.”

Roger gives him a look like Brian’s the most dimwitted person he’s ever come across in his life. Brian doesn’t feel he’s wrong right now. “You wouldn’t be giving him your number so he _ has _ your number, idiot. You’d be giving him your number to highlight the many and varied ways you’d like to have him up against the coffee machine.”

“I will fire you.”

“Good luck explaining your reasonings to Deaky.”

“Deaky would understand, he hates you too.”

“I am a treasure in Deaky’s life whereas you are the irritating manager who keeps telling him how _ his _ coffee-shop should be run.” Roger starts making himself another on-the-house coffee, which admittedly Brian rather likes about the way Deaky runs the place when he’s coming off an all-night study session into an eight hour shift. “And _ he _ likes the sign.”

Which means the sign is staying. “Of course he does.”

“Oh yeah.” Roger grins. “He’s very impressed you found a sense of humour somewhere, actually, seeing as how this whole thing was your idea.”

As if Brian needs reminding of that fact.

Roger opens his mouth again, presumably for another joke at Brian’s expense, which is about when Brian gets tired of pretending he’s not watching the curve of Freddie’s elbow through the window. He takes the mug of steaming coffee from Roger’s hands before it reaches his mouth, ignores the _ Hey! _ he receives as payment due, then goes to grab Freddie’s jacket where it’s still hanging in the cupboard.

“Unless you’re here to apologise-” Freddie starts as soon as he hears the door open, small body already gearing up for another fight, and Brian holds up his full hands in a gesture of surrender.

“I am,” he says, and hands over the jacket. Freddie eyes it for a second, but accepts it when Brian reminds him “It’s October, Freddie.”

“_I know_.” Freddie takes it, none too gently, slips into it with a hidden sigh. “That’s how mad I was.”

“I know.” Brian holds out the coffee mug next, which Freddie accepts with much less fuss. 

He drinks deep, fingers red with cold on the ceramic, then pulls a face. “Darling, didn’t you-” He breaks off at the sight of the sugar packets Brian’s holding out, grabbed from the counter as he left, and laughs. “Thank you.”

Brian watches him dump all five in with his usual horror, but doesn’t say anything this time. He’s just glad Freddie’s calling him darling again, a feeling he can’t examine too closely when Freddie is right in front of him.

“So what’s up?” he asks instead, reaching out to take a sip of the coffee despite the heinous amounts of sweetness in a perfectly good cup. Roger does know how to make a coffee, Brian will admit. 

Freddie lets him steal a sip for warmth, but takes it back as soon as Brian’s swallowed with a look.

“Nothing, darling, what do you mean?”

“I mean I tell you off every single day. You’ve never walked out before.”

“That’s absolutely not true and you know it,” Freddie argues and Brian laughs because he’s right. Freddie has threatened to quit at least twice a week since he started, over Brian’s ‘nitpicking’ and ‘bloody bullheadedness’ and ‘is this a coffee-shop or Soviet _ fucking _ Russia’. He’s never walked out close to tears. At least, not serious ones. 

“_Freddie_,” Brian leans, and Freddie caves because Freddie always caves when Brian applies the right amount of pressure.

“It’s honestly nothing,” Freddie starts, wraps his jacket tighter around himself as he says, “Just a bad date last night, that’s all.”

Brian ignores the swooping in his stomach in order to reach out, wrap a long arm around Freddie’s shoulders and pull him in. “Oh, Fred.”

“Just thought I’d cheer myself up a bit.” Freddie’s voice sounds dangerously thick. There’s a sniff, then, “Thought it would make you laugh.” Then, slightly petulantly, “Made Roger laugh.”

“I’ve just had a shit morning,” Brian says, when in reality he’s not sure there’s a morning good enough to mitigate the punch in the chest seeing that sign had been. “I’ll cheer up.”

“Please?” Freddie tilts his head back to grin at him. “You’re a nightmare when you’re cranky.”

“Yeah, _ alright_,” Brian pushes Freddie away, more out of self-preservation than offence, and Freddie goes easily, laughing. He covers his mouth halfway through, which is how Brian knows it was a _ really _ bad date.“See if I let you keep that damn sign now.”

Freddie’s eyes light up, which is ridiculous because it’s just a bloody chalkboard but Brian supposes there’s slightly more to it than that now. “You-”

“If it interferes with your work, you’re taking it down.”

“Of course, darling.”

“And censor it, please, children come here.”

“Right away.”

Brian moves to give the sign a final once over, just to see if there’s anything else he can reasonably be expected to get Freddie to change. “Could’ve given yourself a better ass,” he says lightly, the way a friend probably would, and gestures to the crude stick figure. “I thought you were in _ art _ school?”

Freddie hmphs indignantly. “Chalk is not my medium, darling.”

Brian tuts. “Wouldn’t stand in the way of a true artist.”

“God, you’re an asshole,” Freddie says, but not at all like he means it, and laughs without hiding his teeth.

***

The sign stays.

Worse, the sign begins to attract attention.

Freddie gets a couple of numbers during the first week of it being up, slid cautiously alongside any change he’s handed, as if not really sure of the whole thing is a joke, to which Freddie beams to find but ultimately throws in the bin, declaring that he needs someone bolder than all that. 

(Roger raises his eyebrows pointedly at Brian when Freddie isn’t looking, and Brian responds by ignoring him and pencilling him in for another early shift.)

No one ever seems to give their number to Brian, he notices halfway through the second week of it, or Roger. Even when it’s either of them at the counter rather than Freddie, it’s always Freddie who gets the numbers tucked into his apron or left on the table for him. 

“I’d be offended,” Roger says when Brian brings it up, lounging near the window when he should be keeping an eye on the pastries. “If I cared about that sign half as much as you do.”

“I don’t _ care _,” Brian reiterates, handing off a triple whip grande soy that’s definitely been the victim of his distraction. “Just wonder how they can tell.”

Roger laughs. “How they can tell that Freddie’s the gay, desperately single one? Is that seriously what you’re asking me?”

“Well, _I’m_ _bi_,” Brian says, which definitely isn’t the way he pictured first saying those words aloud. In his head he pictured saying them to Freddie, something like a promise, something like a chance, not bickering with Roger of all people.

“I’m not going to comment on the second half of that,” Roger says, then reconsiders. “Actually I am, when did _ you _ last go on a date? Because Freddie’s on one right now.”

Brian spills the next coffee over his hands.

He curses loudly and has to run his hands under cold water for a couple of minutes while Roger picks up the order for him. He keeps it running a little longer than he needs to when he feels Roger looking at him, doesn’t need to look up and see the pitying expression on his face.

“One of the guys who gave him his number,” Roger says anyway, because he’s the worst. “Didn’t he tell you?”

Brian switches off the tap and doesn’t answer. He didn’t. They’d been texting last night, actually, so long and late into the evening that Brian had quite forgotten why they started until he came in this afternoon and saw Roger in Freddie’s place. They’d switched shifts, but Freddie hadn’t said it was for a date. 

Probably in case Brian scolded him again for slacking off. Which he probably would have, if only to hide the ache in his chest.

Something in Roger must take pity on Brian, which would be the worst part of all of this if the worst part weren’t Freddie out there somewhere with someone brave enough to _ do something _, because he elbows him in the side. “If it helps,” he says, holding out his phone for Brian to see. It’s open on a chat with Freddie, and all Brian can see are grey bubbles filled with exclamation marks. “He’s having an awful time.”

“It doesn’t,” Brian lies, just a little bit. Catches sight of _ ROGGIE PLEASE RING ME!!!!! _and means it even less. “Shouldn’t you help him out?”

“Once he promises to take my Saturday shift this week,” Roger shrugs, and wanders away. Brian serves two more people before Roger disappears out the back to make the call. 

Selfishly, Brian hopes Freddie gives in to the extortion - Freddie usually turns up to a Saturday shift with sunglasses and a headache from wherever he’s been out the night before, and dealing with him is a sorry state of affairs that Brian would still absolutely take over any other staff member in a heartbeat.

He cleans down the surfaces near the back door, pretending he’s not trying to listen. When Roger walks back through, he gives him a look that says he didn’t pretend very well and also, yes, he’s exactly as pathetic as he feels.

Brian considers firing him on the spot, but it wouldn’t exactly be fair seeing as how he’s just as irritated with himself.

As Roger gets back to what can only generously be called work, Brian excuses himself to the small office tucked away in the corner. It’s closer to a cupboard than anything secretarial, a small desk squeezed into the space for John whenever he pops in and for the long and arduous task of stock take which Brian might as well get a start on now just to try and clear his mind with figures. 

He’s about halfway through _ Tea, Chai _when he hears the definite and unexpected sound of Freddie’s laugh.

“_God _ , you wouldn’t believe it-” He’s saying to Roger when Brian pokes his head out the door to investigate. “A _ Starbucks _, Roger, have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous?

“It’s a normal place for a date, Fred.”

“Not when I _ work _ in a fucking coffee-shop, dear, I mean really how fucking _ dull_!”

Freddie’s perched himself on the counter next to the homemade flapjacks, and is currently liberating one from the cling film as he talks. Brian watches him break off a corner and pop it delicately into his mouth, still laughing. Then he spots Brian, and hastily tries to hide the treat behind his back.

“I know you steal the cakes, Freddie,” Brian says, rolling his eyes and already ticking off the inventory in his head.

“Oh. Well that’s good then!” Freddie grins a little sheepishly and holds out the flapjack in offering. 

Brian shakes his head, which was obviously the right answer to give, then leans back against the opposite counter. He folds his arms, raises an eyebrow, and asks as if he has no knowledge of the answer, “I thought you were busy today, Fred?”

Freddie freezes with a mouthful of flapjack, big eyes gone wide. Roger snickers quietly, and Brian doesn’t know who he’s laughing at more. “I…” He rallies, though not quick enough. “I just felt so bad that I cancelled my plans and thought I’d stop by and cheer you all up.”

Brian waits.

“Oh, Brian, it was the worst date _ ever _ !” Freddie cries plaintively, which is impressive because Brian’s heard about the state of some of Freddie’s dates, either mentioned in distressingly casual passing from Freddie or whispered furtively from Roger when a more subdued Freddie goes on break. He’s never been this animated after a bad date before, which means Brian’s not concerned as he bites back a smile and settles in to listen to Freddie go on for about fifteen uninterrupted minutes about a date that, actually, wouldn’t have even topped Brian’s personal list of Assholes Freddie Has Dated, and finally ends with a long-awaited “Anyway there’s no _ way _ I’m going on another one, darling, so we can take the sign _ down_.”

***

Then the sign hits Instagram.

Brian is the one to spot it first. Freddie uses Instagram in starts and bursts, nothing for weeks until he remembers he has the thing and spams Brian’s feed with dozens of pictures of his three illegal cats, in-progress pictures of his coursework and only the occasional picture of himself, usually blurrily taken in some dingy club, much to Brian’s secret disappointment. 

Whereas Brian is an unlikely Instagram addict. It started, ostensibly, just as a way to document his photography, but somewhere along the way it spiralled into a habit as a way to take his mind completely off his studies. He’s been trying to talk John into starting up an Instagram page for the cafe for ages, but John doesn’t seem to think it's the kind of cafe that _ needs _ an Instagram account but John eschews anything that could make his business into something he has to actually deal with rather than leaving Brian to basically run the place. 

Brian thinks he’s close to wearing him down, though, and so keeps a small section of his carefully cultivated _ Explore _ page reserved for coffee-grams should the need ever arise. Which is how he comes across a post of Freddie’s sign, geotagged with the cafe’s location, and a collection of hashtags so ridiculous that it’s no wonder that the post has 12,475 likes that are rising by the second.

It’s explained further when he swipes left on the post and is confronted by a picture of Freddie. He’s behind the counter at the coffee shop, definitely not aware of the photo being taken as he works, and he’s so unguarded in the picture, his eyes so deep and captivating, even through the lens of someone’s phone, that Brian’s heart thuds in his chest.

He reports first the picture then the account, because there is no way Freddie consented to any of this, but the damage is already done.

By the time he gets to work, there’s a line out the door. He has to force his way through to the front, thankful of his long legs and unfortunate bony elbows to get him there, and when he finally pushes his way inside he finds the shop busier than he’s ever seen it. There’s a small crowd around the counter, which, thankfully, doesn’t have Freddie behind it. Instead it’s Roger, doing his utmost to be heard over the din as he tries to separate out the actual customers from people here just to gawk at the spectacle of the thing.

“_Oi _ , no shoving!” Roger yells, pointing furiously at a group of girls very enthusiastically pushing what appears to be their very gay, very scared friend to the front. “I mean it, can everyone just- _ Brian! _” Roger’s never sounded so pleased to see him in all the years he’s known him.

“Where’s Freddie?” Brian shouts, because this _ is _ Freddie’s shift and he’s getting concerned that he’s been carried off somewhere without Roger noticing in the mess.

“Hiding!” Roger shouts back as Brian wades his way to the front. “Help me!”

Brian is already a good head above most of the people in the cafe, which has been useful thus far. When he pulls out a chair and climbs on top, he gets a little more attention. Then he raises his voice.

“_Shut up! _” 

A hush falls over the room. 

Probably as everyone stops to stare at the gangly manager standing on the furniture and yelling, but at least he’s gotten their attention. A couple of phones, already filming the excitement for some live video or another, turn to him with unnerving speed.

“Thank you.” He clears his throat. “Anyone who is _ not _ here for coffee, please can you leave the-”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence before the crowd shoves forward again, almost as one, all suddenly with an order for Roger who goes from looking pissy to looking slightly daunted.

“_WE ARE OUT OF COFFEE! _”

Even Roger blinks at the force of the words from Brian’s mouth.

“We’re closed.” This time he speaks normally, but firmly. “Everybody out.”

Watching them all file glumly outside, there’s not as many as there appeared to be when in the midst of a very loud and unexpected crowd, but still Brian is glad to see the back of them. There’s mud all over the floor, tracked in from outside. The windows have fogged up, and there’s a small pile of receipt, post-its, and business cards on the counter which, he can see even from his height, are all scrawled with a number and a name in various handwritings.

The bell over the door tinkles for the last time, deafening in the sudden quiet, and Brian gets down off the chair to march across to the door and lock it firmly behind the last straggler. 

He flips the sign to _ Closed_.

“Call John,” he says, and doesn’t wait around to hear Roger make the call.

“Freddie?” He calls out as he slips into the kitchen. It’s dark, none of the ovens on, clearly the rush of customers had caught Freddie and Roger in the midst of opening up. Brian flicks on the light. “Fred, they’re gone.”

“Brian?” Something moves behind one of the silver tables, Freddie peeking over the top. When he confirms it is in fact Brian and not an Instagram-hungry madman, he rises all the way, rushes over to grab at Brian’s hands in plea. “Oh my god, Brian, I am so sorry, I-”

“Not your fault,” Brian cuts him off, even if it is slightly somewhat his fault, because Freddie looks a little pale around the edges. But Freddie pulls a face, so he amends. “Alright, a little.”

“There were so many,” Freddie says, sounding a mix of awed and horrified. His hands are shaking a little, Brian notices, then notices that they’re still holding hands. “It’s just a stupid sign, it was a laugh, I didn’t think…I’m_ really _ sorry, Brian, _ please _ don’t fire me.”

“Freddie, it’s okay,” Brian says, because Freddie’s slipped from slightly shaken to visibly upset. He lifts Freddie’s hands and presses a quick kiss to the knuckles even as his thumbs stroke soothing patterns across the skin there, doesn’t even realise what he’s done until he’s done it. Freddie’s hands are warm, and they don’t smell of coffee the way Brian’s always seem to. They smell like rose, some cream Freddie must use to keep his hands so soft. “I’m not firing you.” Brian doesn’t actually have the authority to fire anyone, but it’s better if Freddie and Roger don’t know that. “I _ am _ making you tidy up the mess, though.”

“Done,” Freddie accepts quickly, but his voice is soft. When Brian finally looks up from where he’s been resolutely staring at Freddie’s hands like it’s a perfectly normal thing to kiss your friend’s hands like this, Freddie’s cheeks are a little pink.

“Freddie-” Brian starts, doesn’t know what he’s starting, and then stops because the bell to the shop is ringing and there’s only one person with the key to get inside after Brian’s locked the door. “That’s John,” he says instead of whatever he’d nearly been brave enough to say. “I’ll go and explain.”

Reluctantly, he lets go of Freddie’s hands.

“You know where the mop is,” He says over his shoulder as he leaves, because he can’t look back at Freddie right now. Then he stops, catches the door, and has to. “It’s by the fire-extinguisher.” Stops again. “...By the back door.”

“Long, thin thing, right?” Freddie stretches his arms out to indicate length, the beginnings of mischief bleeding back into his face. “What we use to prop open the door for smoke breaks?”

“I didn’t hear that,” Brian says, and goes.

***

Luckily, it’s never as crazy as that first day again.

Roger maintains that there was a fluke in the universe that day, the stars aligning in a one in a billion chance for a joke sign in an independent coffee shop in Kensington to go suddenly viral.

Brian maintains that it’s all his own terrible fucking luck.

Because, even as it dies down, the attention doesn’t completely end. There’s still numbers left on the counter, under coffee-cups, slipped through the door overnight. Roger places a glass jar next to the Tip Jar to collect them all in, and it’s full more often than not. 

And within a week of this, Freddie forgets he was ever upset or scared and goes right back to being flattered which means that, suddenly, Brian has his work cut out for him.

Because Brian, god help him, starts hiding the numbers.

***

Brian never means to start hiding the numbers.

He’s been doing his utmost to ignore the whole thing, if he’s being honest, which is easy to do when Freddie’s distracting him with funny impressions and drawing increasingly graphic and precise illustrations on top of customer drinks that Brian has to quickly cover with a sprinkling of extra chocolate and ignore Freddie’s giggles.

Roger’s jar had been irritating to begin with, and Brian’s at least sixty per cent convinced he only put it there to annoy him anyway, but Freddie never seems to touch it when he’s on shift with Brian, so it’s all but slipped out of his mind a few weeks later when he‘s, for the first time, given a handful of change containing a number scrawled on what appears to be the back of a cigarette packet and is asked by a rather large, slightly intimidating man in a leather jacket to pass it on to ‘the sweet little thing on the machine.” with a knowing wink that makes Brian feel unwell.

He’s exactly Freddie’s type and from what Brian’s aware of Freddie’s type, Freddie’s type usually spells out _ asshole _.

The paper’s screwn up in his fist before he even realises he’s made one, which is the kind of damning evidence he absolutely cannot pass over to Freddie.

“Everything alright, dear?” Freddie swans over, bumping his hip and almost jolting the paper out of his hand. Brian closes his hand around it again, to stop it from falling to the floor, then slides his hand into his back pocket.

“Yeah, ‘course,” He says, not sounding at all like the actual worst human being that he absolutely he is. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well I don’t know, dear, what could possibly make you look close to tears at three in the afternoon?” He taps a finger on his bottom lip, thinking, _ maddening _. “Aside from the way I make a latte, of course.”

Brian rolls his eyes. “I was hardly crying.”

“You were moping.”

“I wasn’t _ moping_.”

“You were definitely grumpy.”

“I’m always grumpy.”

Freddie laughs, “Well that’s true, darling,” and thankfully lets it lie. “Do you want anything, I’m making myself a _ cappuccino _ ,” He drags the _ o _ out as he wanders towards the coffee-maker and inspects the thing like he’s never seen it before in his life.

“I’ll do it,” Brian says quickly because he has, unfortunately, tasted Freddie’s coffee before. Really, they never should have hired him, but John’s a sucker for a hard-up student - they seem to be all he employs - and Brian’s own reasons for never complaining about him aren’t worth mentioning.

“I’ve got it,” Freddie says, without conviction. “Now, which button is it again? The big red one? Glowing, slightly?”

Brian _ has _ to bodily move him, hands gently resting on the juts of Freddie’s slim hips to shift him to the side, Freddie turning easily in his arms like he was made for the space, for the good of the whole cafe. Health and Safety regulations surely demand that Brian get this utter hazard out of the area of machinery in anyway possible.

“_I_,” He says firmly, slipping the cups out of Freddie’s hands and turning to the machine as if his body doesn’t suddenly feel hot all over. “Will do it. You absolute menace.”

And Freddie goes, serenely, as if that weren’t his plan the whole time, hopping himself neatly up onto the counter as Brian works, legs kicking absently. Brian gives him a stern look but doesn’t actually tell him to move, which is probably why Freddie thinks he can get away with shit like this. Like this, Freddie’s face is almost on a level with his, grinning at him, critiquing his technique and suggesting they make the most of a nearly empty shop and turn the coffees _ Irish _ , _ Brian, c’mon, I won’t tell if you won’t_, and it’d be so easy to take it back. Brian could hand Freddie the note and pretend he just forgot about it earlier.

Brian doesn’t.

It’s the beginning of a problem.

It’s simple enough, hiding some of them. There’s usually a couple left on the tables throughout the day, tucked under saucers, and collecting those up along with used napkins and ripped sugar packets is simple. Brian could easily have mistaken them for rubbish as he wipes down tables.

Most disappear the same as the first, handed to Brian with a nudge and a wink and _ immediately _ shoved into Brian’s apron or pocket or straight into the bin, simply because he _ can’t _ give them to Freddie. 

He honestly, truly, never meant to be this person, but it’s almost a compulsion. Some bone-deep survival instinct in Brian that absolutely cannot be the one to hand Freddie one of those scraps of paper.

He doesn’t interfere when Freddie is handed numbers, nor when Roger is - though something in him suspects that Roger’s getting as tired of this whole thing as he was from day one, if the way Brian caught him hesitating before dropping the paper into the perpetually half-full jar is anything to go by - just when the opportunity falls into his lap.

Freddie does make an off-hand comment about how his jar isn’t looking very full these days, or as off-hand as he can be whilst leant over the counter and resting his head pitifully besides it. There are a fair few numbers in there, but there’s dust, too. 

“Not that I ever _ do _ anything with them,” He admits, though Brian’s not sure _ why _ he doesn’t. That first, and apparently _ only _, date hadn’t really seemed bad enough to swear off the whole thing entirely. “But it’s nice to be noticed, surely?”

(Brian has to blink from where his eyes have naturally rested on the swell of Freddie’s ass in his jeans as he’s bent over the counter, turning back to the glass he’s been mechanically drying for the past two minutes since Freddie threw himself into this position and making a couple of agreeing noises in the back of his throat for Freddie to interpret as he likes.)

But Brian is clearly getting too careless with this awful plan, because it’s not long before Freddie catches him.

“_Brian! _” Brian jolts at the sudden, disbelieving cry of his name to find Freddie staring at him, hands on his hips.

Brian frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“Did you just-” Freddie gestures, more like _ flaps _ his hands, somewhat manically at Brian’s hands, which, when Brian looks down, are holding a crumpled up note with a number scrawled across it. Obviously meant for Freddie, obviously about to be chucked out by Brian.

Ah.

_ Shit_.

The act’s become so second nature that Brian didn’t even register that Freddie was beside him, chatting away - probably because that’s become second nature, easy as breathing, too.

He thinks fast. “Oh, him? Fred, he wasn’t good enough for you, did you see him?”

Honestly speaking, Brian can’t remember what the bloke even looked like.

Freddie folds his arms over his chest. “And how would you know?” He demands. “You could have just thrown away my one chance at love! The love of my life could be walking around London thinking I’ve rejected him!” But there’s a grin pulling at one corner of Freddie’s mouth, even as he tries to keep a straight face, and the vice around Brian’s heart unclenches.

“The love of your life can stand to try a little harder than that,” Brian says, and Freddie hums thoughtfully. 

He eyes Brian with a sharp look that makes Brian feel stripped back to nothing. As if Freddie can see all of him, everything he’s doing a pretty fucking appalling job of hiding. Then Freddie shrugs. “Maybe you should vet all of my dates from now on, darling,” He suggests, off-hand, turning back to the machine, and Brian privately thinks that if it were up to him Freddie wouldn’t go on any dates whatsoever, except, maybe one.

***

Then, December hits, and with it Brian’s end of term exams. 

If he’s not at work, he’s at the library, and even when he _ is _at work he’s spending every second he can reading through the different textbooks he’s illegally downloaded onto his phone, along with the ones he’s stuffed behind the coffee-maker, beneath the till, in the office, and behind the tank of the employee loo. He spends the month running off of free coffee and no sleep, and thus has no time to even think about Freddie’s fucking sign let alone steal any of the numbers.

It’d be a great boon for his mental health, if he weren’t also wishing for death with every second that passes.

It’s a quiet day at work, the day before his first exam, and after realising they weren’t getting more than the occasional customer per hour, he sent Roger home so he could get away with ducking underneath the counter to highlight every paragraph in his Thermodynamics and Statistical Mathematics books, as if that’ll help him any.

He’s so absorbed in the pages, the alcoholic scent of his neon green highlighter that’s getting heavier and heavier, that he doesn’t hear the ring of the little bell over the door.

“Brian!”

Brian jumps, pens scattering across the floor, textbook flying out of his lap and landing upside down dangerously close to a puddle of coffee he should have cleared up hours ago, and looks up with his heart hammering way too hard to find Freddie peering over the counter at him, mouth curved in an utterly _ delighted _ grin at catching Brian in the act.

“For _F_\- _gods_ _sake, Freddie_.” Brian moves to collect up his belongings, stuffing them back under the till. One pen rolls out of reach and he has to slip an arm under the table that holds the coffee-machine to get it back, which means his arm comes back covered in probably every coffee granule that’s ever been kicked out of sight rather than properly wiped up. Great.

“Tsk, tsk, this is horrendous customer service, darling,” Freddie’s laughing, still leaning over the counter as Brian scrambles about for errant stationary. “I’ll be taking this up with your-” Brian stands up, clutching a biro, and sways a little. “-manager… Darling, are you alright?”

Brian nods, even as a couple of black spots start to dance across his vision. He shouldn’t have stood up so fast. No sleep, less food, six cups of coffee and a sudden jump are all adding up to make him violently regret all six feet two inches of his height.

Freddie is behind the counter quicker than Brian can blink, though he’s not actually sure how long his blinks are taking right now, and grabs his hands like he can steady him. “You need to sit down.”

“I _ was _ sitting down,” Brian argues, but lets Freddie lead him to the office.

“Sorry, dear, I meant sit down _ without _ your nose pressed into the crease of the world’s _ thickest fucking textbook _, I mean really-” Brian tunes out Freddie’s fussing as he sits in the rickety chair and allows the light to be turned out on him but the door kept open as Freddie heads back into the shop with a firm word for Brian to stay put.

Through the gap in the door, winter daylight spilling through, Brian watches as Freddie starts rummaging around in the cupboards, pulling out some delicate cups Brian wasn’t aware the shop even had, and then a jar that reminds him of _ the _ jar and so he closes his eyes to avoid all that.

He opens them again to find the light all but completely gone. He panics for a second, thinking he’s fallen asleep and missed his exam, only to realise that, no, he’s still in John’s office but the door has been pulled almost to, only the barest crack of light coming through. There’s a cup next to him, and when he touches it, it’s cool to the touch.

When he pushes his way out of the cupboard, he finds Freddie at the counter, Brian’s apron tied about his waist that Brian’s certain he was wearing just a minute ago, chatting happily to a customer as he steams milk. He blinks, a little blearily, because Freddie isn’t on shift today, then remembers.

“Darling, you’re up!” Freddie abandons the jug of milk and the conversation as soon as he spots Brian, hurrying over. The guy he was talking to shoots Brian a dirty look, which Brian is too tired to try and parse, and then Freddie is in front of him, fussing again, reaching up to check a temperature Brian doesn’t even have, and Brian forgets all about the guy’s existence.

“How long was I out?” Brian asks, because he needs to assess how much crucial time he’s lost, and Freddie’s eyes narrow like he knows exactly what Brian’s thinking.

“Just over forty minutes, and you could do with more.” Freddie pushes at Brian’s shoulder with a finger. “I’ve hidden your books, so don’t even bother-”

“They’re behind the iced teas in the fridge, aren’t they?”

Freddie stops. “_ No_,” He lies, then throws up his hands. “How do you _ know _ about that?”

“That’s where you hide everything.” His cigarettes when he’s trying to quit but not trying hard enough to throw them away, Roger’s wallet when he’s annoying him, the occasional pastry he tries to slip past Brian. Brian should go and liberate his, now slightly chillier, books from the fridge, but he can’t seem to will his legs to move. They feel inescapably heavy.

Freddie huffs a little in exasperation, but he must sense Brian’s unwillingness to be too difficult. He can probably see it written plain as day across Brian’s face. “Go and sit down, I’ll bring you a drink.”

“I had a coffee somewhere-”

“Not a fucking _ chance _ .” Freddie pushes his shoulder again, with a sharp smile that definitely means business, and turns to make Brian’s drink which is probably about when he, and Brian for that matter, remember the customer still sitting at the counter. “ _ Oh _, dear, I’m so sorry! Let me get right on that, a latte wasn’t it?”

The guy shakes his head, getting up. “Leave it, sweetheart.” He collects up a cap and a small scrap of paper. It’s another one fucking number. Brian can’t catch a _ break_. “Guess there’s no point in leaving this, is there? Maybe don’t flirt with guys while your boyfriend’s asleep in the back, yeah?”

Freddie turns an instant, furious red. 

He darts a rapid look at Brian, and Brian doesn’t understand, can’t kick his exhausted brain in gear to think correctly to understand what that means, because _ what boyfriend_, but something in Freddie’s suddenly taut shoulders loosens slightly as he sees the confusion in Brian’s face, so he decides to leave it for now.

Freddie brings him another cup of what turns out to be the most perfectly brewed chamomile tea Brian has ever had, which is impressive considering Brian hates chamomile tea. Brian’s about ready to write off western medicine as a whole when he takes the first sip and the heat floods out through his bones, and something unlocks in his spine. It might just be sitting in the small, dim, warm space with Freddie, knees knocking together under the desk as Freddie pulls in a stool from the shop to sit with him, but Brian’s willing to blame the tea.

“Freddie, this is really good.”

Freddie sighs. “No one ever orders tea,” He says, a little wistfully. “I can make tea, any kind you like. It’s just my coffee that’s-”

“Atrocious?”

“_Problematic_.” Freddie corrects, and kicks him none-too-gently under the table before taking his own sip of chamomile. “John doesn’t have any Ginseng, or I would have made you a cup of that. Even better for stress, and it smells absolutely _ divine _.” He’s chattering a little, like he’s nervous. “Chamomile’s fine, but-” He stops when Brian reaches out and lays a hand over his.

“It’s perfect, Fred,” Brian says, and Freddie shuts up and drinks his tea.

They don’t get any more customers in the time it takes them to slowly, lingeringly, most-likely-stretching-it-out-ly, drink their tea, and Brian feels revitalised. Or, at least, revitalised enough so to finish the rest of his shift and head home to pass out for eight hours before his exam tomorrow. 

But when he asks for his apron back, Freddie refuses.

“Freddie, you’re not even working today,” He says, holding out a hand, which Freddie ignores. Then he stops. “Why _ are _ you here?” It’s hard enough to get Freddie to turn up on the shifts he’s actually working, always swanning in at least fifteen minutes late with the most brilliant of excuses for why. 

“Oh, I was just passing.” Freddie waves a hand as if waving off the whole line of questioning, then points a finger at Brian even as he, finally, hands over the apron. “And a good job I was or Deaky would have stopped by for the lock-box and found you passed out on the floor!”

“I wasn’t going to pass out,” Brian rolls his eyes. The apron is warm from Freddie’s body as he ties it in place. “But, seriously, thanks,” He says, because there’s a very real possibility he may have done just that. 

Freddie smiles. “Anytime, darling.”

He stays until the end of Brian’s shift, just to keep an eye he claims as he drags a stool over to sit across the counter as Brian works, and helps himself to no less than three croissants throughout. Brian would tell him off, even just a little bit, but he realises halfway through the second one that Freddie’s been absently offering him torn off sections of croissant while he’s been talking, and Brian, utterly clueless and in love with the way Freddie tells stories, hadn’t even noticed.

He’s actually starting to feel slightly hungry again where he hasn’t since classes stopped. His stomach rumbles as he’s wiping down, and the grin on Freddie’s face says it counts as a victory.

“You’ve got some colour in your cheeks again, love,” Freddie claps his hands, pointing at Brian as evidence. “My work here is done.”

But still he stays, right up until Brian turns off the lights and locks the door behind them. He’s finally fetched out Brian’s heavy books and pencil case from the fridge, but clutches them to his chest as he hops from foot to foot in the cold evening air, and doesn’t relinquish them until the very last second.

“You should go home and get some proper sleep,” He says, finally handing them over with some reluctance. “It’s not good to keep studying right up until the last minute. Which is why I never do any at all.”

“Your study techniques are going to give me a panic attack.”

“_Mmm_, me too,” Freddie laughs. “And eat something, dear, please or else you’ll waste away before you even get to sit the fucking thing. Promise me?”

“Well, do you want to come round?” Brian asks, because something feels like he can.“Pizza or something, my treat? As a thank you?” He adds, when Freddie doesn’t say anything.

Freddie’s cheeks are flushed from the cold when he says, “Alright,” and follows Brian to his bus stop.

***

Brian wakes up the next morning on his sofa to to his alarm blaring, a blanket pulled gently over him, a flask pulled from god-knows where in the kitchen sitting on the coffee table next to his now neatly piled textbooks when he’s sure he slung them under the table last night with every intention of forgetting all about them, and no Freddie. 

There is however a note, scrawled on one of his post-its in Freddie’s elegant script and stuck to the back of his hand.

_ You dropped off halfway through the movie, dear, so I let myself out. Some hot date you are! _

_ Good luck, darling, I know you’ll do wonderfully. _

_ Love, F _

There’s a tiny heart underneath, penned with precise care, and Brian’s brain finally kicks into gear.

***

That day Brian walks into his first exam with a flask of chamomile tea under his arm.

Two weeks later, he walks out of his final one and heads straight for the coffeeshop.

***

It’s busy, of course it is. A Friday afternoon after exams, the winter sun still bright for the moment and the air crisp and clean and full of possibilities, of course people are going to be out in the city, stop in their favourite coffee-shop for a drink to warm themselves through. 

When Brian arrives, Freddie’s serving a couple by the door and catching sight of him through the window, chattering away as he hands out drinks, makes Brian’s heart skip a beat, and then another when Freddie straightens up to walk away and spots him through the glass.

“Brian!” He’s saying as Brian pushes his way through the door, and his smile could light up the room. Brian doesn’t know how he didn’t ever see it before, because that’s exactly what his face feels like when Freddie walks in. “How was the exam, did you-”

He doesn’t finish.

He doesn't finish because, before the door has even closed behind him, Brian has caught him around the waist and kissed him.

And it doesn’t matter that it’s in the middle of the fucking cafe, or that Freddie’s halfway through speaking, or that Brian’s just about realising he could have done this _ months _ ago and saved himself a whole lot of upset, because as he kisses him, Freddie makes a quiet little noise in the back of his throat that Brian can feel in his mouth, across his tongue, and sinks into the kiss like it’s everything he’d been waiting for, and maybe he has.

Freddie’s tray hangs limply against Brian’s back, quite forgotten as Brian pulls back before he loses himself in the fact that he’s finally kissing Freddie.

“You-” Freddie starts, eyes wide and lips red, stops as he inhales slightly raggedly. “God, you took your time, darling.” 

“_Yeah_,” Brian agrees, because he did. But he’s here now, he’s got Freddie beneath his hands and that’s all that matters.

He kisses him again, ignoring the noise around, Roger’s voice calling from the counter about how he’ll be reporting this highly inappropriate workplace behaviour _ directly _ to Brian’s superior, the distinct sound of several phone cameras shuttering, instead asking, “Can we _ please_,” and Freddie grins like he knows exactly what Brian’s about to say. “Take that _ fucking _ sign down?”

Freddie tips his head back, and laughs with all his teeth. “Of course, darling. I already have your number anyway.”

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the infamous coffee shop sign that, if you didn't come here from the tumblr post for this fic, is thus;
> 
> Today Your Barista Is
> 
> 1\. hella fucking gay
> 
> 2\. desperately single
> 
> For your drink today I recommend: you give me your number
> 
> (I'm on tumblr as queerbrianmay come say hi!)


End file.
